Wayward Saints Hospital
by TheTrickyOwl
Summary: Taking on the life of a doctor requires a steady hand, a thick skin, and a passion for saving lives. Within the walls of Wayward Saints Hospital, three romances blossom as they struggle with life, death, hope, and healing. Sabriel, Destiel, Crobby.
1. Chapter 1

The first thing Dean Winchester heard as he cracked one tired eye open against the glare of early morning sunlight was the frantic thundering of heavy footsteps, and his first instinct was to find whatever large, panicked, rampaging animal that had somehow gotten into his house and release it back into the wild. Or shoot it. Shooting was always good, especially at this God forsaken hour. Then, of course, the fog of sleep dissipated in the moments that he lay there, leaving Dean with the clear realization that he, in fact, lived in a city with no nearby forests for any black bears or moose to come trotting in from.

The rare breed of Sam Winchester, however, was known to roam these parts, and Dean recalled allowing a specimen into his house the very night before. It was a large animal, clunky, with awkwardly long limbs and a thick mop of chocolate brown hair that must've went out of style forty years ago. It fed mostly on greens, and liked to huddle up in dark crevices, away from the dangers of the dreaded social life, and kept itself occupied with books and a laptop.

As he cast one regretful glare toward the blinking clock on his nightstand, which read six-fifteen in the Goddamn morning, Dean knew he should have kept that damn creature in a cage overnight.

"Sammy!" Dean hollered groggily. "Would you keep it down? Some of us actually enjoy sleep!"

There was a faint shuffling of socked feet on the rug outside, and then the bedroom door squeaked open, the towering form of Sam blocking out the light pouring in from the sunlit hallway. He was busy brushing away at his teeth, the minty foam on his lips making him look almost rabid. The guy was already fully dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans and a red plaid shirt, shoulder-length hair freshly washed and combed neatly.

"How long have you been up for?" Dean gaped.

Sam shrugged, swishing the foam around in his mouth until he was able to speak around it. "I dunno… An hour, or something."

Dean groaned just at the thought of being awake any earlier than this when he didn't have to be. "Is there a reason why? Besides the fact that you're fucking insane, that is."

The youngest Winchester opened his mouth to respond, but paused, raised one finger to tell Dean to hold his thought, and disappeared out of the doorway and into the bathroom just across the hall. As Dean lay there in his tangled bed sheets, he heard Sam spit his mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, rinse his brush, and wipe his cleanly shaven face into one of the towels on the little towel rack that wasn't screwed in tight enough to the wall and rattled whenever you went near it.

Sam returned, still wiping his mouth with the back of his large hand. "It's my first day at the hospital. I'm gonna need to be punctual, or they'll never take me seriously."

"You don't even have to be there until eight." Dean grumbled, burying his face back into his too-inviting pillow.

"I'm aware. But, you're my ride, and I know how long you take in the bathroom every morning, so I'm allowing you as much time as possible to primp and make yourself pretty for your patients."

Dean glared over. "I don't primp."

"Whatever you call it, then. You're still the prettiest girl at the ball." Sam smirked and dodged an incoming pillow flung across the room by his older brother. He laughed, backing out of the room and flicking the blinding bedroom light on as he did. "Missed me. Now, get up, princess."

Dean groaned, finally summing up enough strength to kick the blankets off of his body, and lift his tired ass out of bed. He rubbed the sleep out of his green eyes with the heels of his hands, vision blotched and blurred. When the bedroom finally came into clarity, he looked around, not quite recalling even stumbling in after his shift the night before.

He'd been called in late, much later than usual, to come to the aide of one of his youngest patients who was having a rough night. A girl by the name of Claire, about nine years of age, who had managed to impale herself on an iron fence when she fell from a tree she'd been climbing in her front yard. How she'd even survived, Dean had no Goddamn idea, but it had been a miracle that the paramedics had even managed to get her into the ambulance with the sawed-off rod of iron still speared right through her little body, and kept her alive and conscious on the ride to the hospital.

Dr. Anna Milton, the head of Paediatrics and Claire's main doctor, had been the one to call Dean in at some ungodly hour in the night, and asked him to perform emergency surgery when the child's organs began to shut down just hours after Dean had removed the actual piece of fence from her gut. It hadn't been a pretty surgery, risky as all fuck, and Claire still wasn't in the clear just yet. There would be weeks of recovery in store for her, weeks of medications to clear her system, of any infections the rusted metal most certainly would have caused. Her organs, especially the ones Dean repaired after they had received the most damage, would need all kinds of special care in order to function properly again.

Being head of Trauma was not an easy task, and it called for all sorts of stupid-as-fuck hours to work, and some of the strangest and most severe injuries to ever come into that hospital, but Dean had managed to save that little girl's life.

It was worth being exhausted in the morning. Nothing a few cups of coffee couldn't fix.

Dean shut his eyes, sighing softly as the spears of sunlight that pierced in from between the blinds crawled across the contours of his bare back, warming the skin there. He rose off the squeaky mattress, rolled his broad shoulders until they popped, and padded across the hall to the bathroom where a nice hot shower was just beckoning him over.

He pulled open the glass shower door, and fired up the hot water, letting the steam slowly fill the bathroom. Over the roar of pouring water, Dean could faintly hear the sound of the early morning news blaring on the television down in the den, where Sam was no doubt eagerly waiting to head in to work like a five year old on his first day of kindergarten. Dean rolled his eyes and kicked off his pyjama pants and boxer shorts, and then climbed into the shower, sighing contentedly as the water poured over him, lighting up his senses and waking him fully.

Sam had just completed his four years at a medical school a few states away, and was finally starting his internship at Wayward Saints Hospital, where Dean was already head of the Trauma Department. He'd graduated with honours, and was looking to major in the field of cardiology once he reaches the end of his residency in eight years and becomes a full-fledged certified surgeon. Dean would be lying if he said he wasn't proud of the kid. Sam was a hard worker. Nerdy as all fuck, but a hard worker nonetheless. Dean had allowed his young brother to move in with him during his internship until Sam made enough to pay off his student loans from school and was able to afford a place of his own. He'd arrived just last night, before Dean had been called away back to the hospital to help Claire.

The townhouse Dean owned was certainly big enough to suit them both, allowing Sam to be the little neat-freak he was without it clashing with the fact that Dean really couldn't care less where he dumped his clothes at night or if he made his bed in the morning. The only downside was the shared bathroom, and the fact that Sam was an earlier riser and loud as all fuck in the morning.

Dean showered quickly, scrubbing frothy fingers through his short hair and lathering up his body with minty fresh soap. Once rinsed down, he turned off the water, stepped out, and dried himself off quickly. Wiping off the fog that had settled on the long bathroom mirror, he gazed at his reflection as he gave himself a quick shave and brushed his teeth. The early June sunlight had caused the freckles on his face to become darker, more prominent against his skin, and his spiked hair had become blonder, too. Even his long lashes looked lighter. Sam always made jokes that Dean looked like he belonged in the centerfold of a magazine or some cheesy daytime medical drama than in the halls of an actual hospital.

Dean didn't mind, though. He was the one that got all the hot chicks' numbers at the end of the day. Sucker.

Returning to his bedroom, Dean dressed quickly into a pair of slim-fitting dark trousers, white button-down, and black tie. The whole monkey-suit thing was unfortunately all a part of being head of a department, and he was thankful that he didn't have to parade about in these clothes every day. His white coat, scrubs, and sneakers were a thousand times more comfortable, especially during surgeries.

He marched downstairs, following the sound of television channels being flipped through, and paused outside the doorway to the den. His brows furrowed as he fiddled with the cufflinks on his shirt.

"Are you watching Dr. Sexy M.D.?"

Sam looked over his shoulder at him from his spot on the plush leather couch, remote control still pointed toward the flatscreen plasma TV on the wall in front of him. He cocked a brow. "No."

"You sure about that?" Dean teased with a smirk.

Sam flicked the television off. "I was browsing stations. You just walked in at the wrong time."

"Uh huh." Dean snatched up his long, dark brown coat from where he'd flung it last night on the back of his favourite armchair, and slipped it on. "I bet it's a guilty pleasure of yours."

"Says the one who has every TV Guide with Dr. Sexy on the cover stored in the remote control compartment of his couch."

Dean huffed, jaw tense with embarrassment, and whipped one of the couch pillows over at Sam, where it whacked him right at the back of the head. "Didn't miss that time."

"Lucky shot." Sam rose to his full, staggering height, and went to fetch his own coat from the rack by the front door. "I already had breakfast. You gonna have something to eat before we head out?"

"I'll grab something on the way there." Dean said as he gathered up his briefcase and patted his coat pocket to make sure the keys to his precious car were still there.

Sam stood waiting for him by the door, bag slung around his shoulder and leather-bound folder nearly spilling over with papers clutched to his broad chest. His hazel eyes were big and bright and eager. Hell, the guy actually did look like an oversized kindergartener ready for class.

They headed out of the house, the scent of freshly cut grass and golden sunlight greeting them in the warm June air. Dean's baby, his beautiful 1967 black Chevrolet Impala, sat waiting in her spot just at the end of the pathway, looking beautiful as she gleamed in the morning light. Dean smiled, affectionately running his fingertips over her sun-baked hood before he threw his briefcase into the back and climbed into the driver's seat. The tan leather seats creaked under the weight of his body, and he shut his eyes, breathing in the musky scent of their father that still managed to linger within the car's interior.

Dr. John Winchester had been the head of Diagnostics at Wayward Saints and the very top in his field. He was the reason Dean had even become a doctor in the first place. He had been a stern man, proud, incredibly intelligent, with steady hands and the deepest devotion to his family. A real hero in Dean's eyes, who could cure any disease thrown his way. He'd saved countless lives, and was one of the most honoured doctors in the country.

The only sickness he couldn't cure, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many nights he'd stayed awake at the hospital and how desperate he had become, was the one that had taken the life of their mother, Mary. It had all happened so quickly, so suddenly, Dean hardly even recalled her being sick. He'd been so young then, and Sam was barely over a year old. She'd been fine one day, and then the next, rushed to the hospital with symptoms that just didn't add up properly. John had worked himself nearly to death trying to save her, but without the proper treatment for her illness, she'd only lasted two weeks.

Their life had spiralled out of control after that. In the years that followed, John had become practically lifeless in his work, and Dean was the one that had to watch over Sam when their father just didn't bother coming home from the hospital on most nights. He'd drink, and drink, until the world would just numb itself away and nothing else mattered anymore. John had sent himself to an early grave just ten years ago, leaving behind a will that stated that all of his money go to the building of The Mary Winchester Medical Clinic at Wayward Saints Hospital, in honour of his beloved fallen wife.

Dean had been given the Impala, and the remaining clinic money had helped Sam in his first two years of medical school. Though broken, their father had still watched over them in some way and, with the building of the clinic, he had given doctors the opportunity to save more lives and catch illnesses quicker, before they have a chance to claim another innocent victim.

Once Sam was all settled on the passenger's side, the Impala's engine roared to life and they peeled down the street in the direction of the hospital. As he drove, Dean popped in one of his many mix tapes, and softly sang along to Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper". Sam had that leather binder of his spread open on his lap, and was reading through the stack of papers he kept in there.

Dean glanced over curiously. "What are those?"

"Medical Journals." Sam stated. "I like going through them to help inspire me. Give me ideas and get me ready."

"Geek," Dean snorted, and picked up one of the papers. He squinted at the name of the author, and a slow smirk curled the corners of his mouth upward. "Dr. Gabriel Wesson, huh?"

Sam snatched the paper back like a pre-teen girl who had just had her diary discovered. "He's the best cardiologist in the whole damn country, Dean. It's because of him that I want to specialize in the field."

"I'm aware. You used to never shut up about him when you called me from school." Dean snickered, turning the corner.

"We studied a lot of his work." Sam grumbled, smoothing out the wrinkles Dean's fingers had left in the papers. "The guy is a genius."

Dean had to suppress the grin as he stared ahead at the road, knowing that Sam was completely unaware that Dr. Gabriel Wesson, the finest cardiologist in the country and the guy Sam practically worshipped, worked at Wayward Saints Hospital. He and Dean were actually close friends, as well as colleagues. They'd go out for drinks together, and Gabriel would always come by to watch the game at Dean's place if neither of them had a shift. And now he was going to be one of Sam's mentors during his journey through internship.

He couldn't wait to catch the look on Sam's face when he found out. He imagined plenty of screaming that could rival a Justin Bieber concert.

They arrived just down the street from Wayward Saints, and Dean made a quick stop in front of a quaint little café that made the single greatest slice of hot apple pie on the damn planet. The place was called _Le Goût du Ciel_, which pretty much translated to "Taste of Heaven". He parked the Impala, and made a quick run inside, thankful that the place opened up so early. The café was tiny, with only about six little round tables lining the elegantly wallpapered walls. Whoever named the place definitely had it right, because it smelled exactly the way Dean imagined heaven would smell like; roasted coffee beans, and freshly baking pastries. His shoes tapped against the hardwood floor as he approached the front counter, his mouth already watering at the sight of all the delicacies on display.

The same woman always worked the counter; tall, rather beautiful, with long blonde hair half pulled back, and the kind of elegant features that usually only carried cold or disapproving expressions. Her name was Rachel, and that's all that Dean really cared to know. Frankly, she kinda scared him.

"Good morning, Rachel." He threw on his most charming smile.

The woman behind the counter lifted her pale green eyes, and arched one elegant blonde brow, her expression bored. She didn't even acknowledge his attempt at a cheerful greeting. "You want the usual?"

Dean cleared his throat, and reached for his wallet. He tossed twenty bucks on the counter. "Actually, make it three coffees today. One black with three sugars, one with two sugars and double cream, and the third with three creams and four sugars."

She nodded once and, without a word, prepared the order, squeezing each steaming cup of coffee in a Styrofoam tray once they were finished. Dean also ordered a slice of apple pie for breakfast, and he didn't wait until he was back in the car before popping the container open and taking a great big forkful of warm apples and crust.

"Mmm…" Dean licked his lips, savouring the taste like it was the best sex he's ever had. "I gotta say, Rachel, you make the best damn pie in the city."

Rachel rang up the order and slid Dean's change across the counter to him. "I don't make any of the pastries. I just work here."

"Really?" Dean asked with surprise as he tried to balance the coffee tray and pie in his arms. He'd never seen any other employees in the café before other than Rachel. Whoever else worked here must've liked staying in the back.

"Yes. Now, are we done here?" She asked flatly, one slender hand resting on her hip.

Dean took his change and backed away from the counter as though retreating from a viper, afraid that she just might bite his head off if he kept up with the small talk any longer. He exited the shop with haste, and climbed back into the Impala, handing Sam his black coffee with three sugars.

"Thanks," Sam took a long sip from his paper cup. He sniffed the air. "What smells so good?"

"Pie. What else?" Dean grinned and popped open the container, practically inhaling the hot slice in three more massive bites.

"…Did you even breathe?" Sam stared at him.

"Don't need to when it tastes that good." Dean tossed the empty pie container in the back, and washed it all down with his coffee. He handed Sam the tray, where the coffee with four sugars still sat.

"What's with the extra coffee?" Sam asked as they backed out of the parking spot and headed down to the hospital.

Dean shrugged one shoulder. "It's for a co-worker."

"Let me guess: some really hot nurse you're hoping to butter up so you two can get freaky in the supply closet?"

Pulling into the hospital parking lot, Dean gave his little brother's upper arm a swift, hard punch. "Bitch."

"Ow! Jerk!" Sam grumbled, rubbing the sore spot.

With the Impala snugly nestled in her reserved parking spot, Dean turned off the growling engine, grabbed the tray of coffee, and climbed out of the car. He looked around, instantly spotting the sleek, silver Porsche that belonged to the Chief of Surgery, Dr. Michael Caito, and Anna's adorable little lime green Volkswagen Beetle a few parking spots over. As Sam began to climb out of the Impala while fumbling with his folder of papers, Dean caught the familiar snarl of an approaching engine.

"Watch it, Sammy!"

Sam turned at Dean's voice, and leaped out of the way with a yelp just in time as a deep red Harley Davidson Electra motorcycle came flying in out of nowhere and screeched to a sharp halt right in the parking space next to Dean's. Sam was sprawled across the Impala's trunk, looking frightened out of his wits, his prized Medical Journals scattered everywhere around the car.

Dean barely held back his snigger. "Y'okay there, Sammy?"

Sam was panting hard, his dark glare on the helmeted driver of the Harley as he turned off the engine and began peeling off his leather gloves. The young intern straightened, then, gathered up what papers he could get a hold of before they blew away, and stomped over to the motorcyclist.

"You oughta watch where the hell you're going!" Sam spat.

Dean's eyes widened, and he had to cover his mouth with his free hand to keep from bursting out into hysterical laughter. He was practically shaking with the effort. "U-um… Sam?"

His little brother ignored him, and continued picking up the papers that had settled around the bike. The driver of the Harley, still helmeted, leaned down off the bike and scooped up a page. He held it out to the intern without a word, and Sam snatched it away, shooting him a look that could kill.

"Asshat." He growled and stormed away into the hospital without bothering to wait for his older brother.

Briefcase and tray of coffee in his hands, Dean approached the motorcyclist, who finally removed his helmet, revealing rich caramel hair pushed away from a striking, angular face to fall in soft waves on the back of his neck. Amber eyes turned in Dean's direction, and they mirrored each other's crooked smirks.

"I'm guessing that huge grumpy thing was your brother." Dr. Gabriel Wesson asked as he climbed off his bike.

"Your number one fan." Dean said in a sing-song tone.

"I could see that."

Dean laughed, handing Gabriel the third coffee. "Got you your coffee this morning, since you got mine yesterday."

"Thanks," Gabriel took the offered cup, tucked his helmet under one arm, and strolled alongside Dean towards the hospital doors. He took a deep inhale of the breeze and sighed deeply. "Ahh… You smell that, Deano? That is the scent of a dozen young, bright minds filling the halls of our hospital, eager to soak up our knowledge and nearly tinkle all over the hospital floors with terror at any given moment."

"Don't'cha just love Fresh Meat Day?" Dean grinned.

"Best day of the year."


	2. Chapter 2

Sam popped open the door to his assigned locker, one powerful arm struggling to keep his leather binder from spilling over again, while at the same time holding onto the bundle of fresh mint green scrubs he'd just acquired, and his half-cold coffee. He slipped the binder into the top shelf, the few papers that stuck out still crinkled and smudged with dirt from being scattered all over the hospital parking lot. He was sure he was missing more than just a few, and there was no way the wind hadn't already carried them to God-knows-where.

Goddamn that asshat on the bike.

Grumbling, he set his scrubs and coffee down on the long wooden bench behind him, and began to unbutton his plaid shirt. Shrugging free of the fleecy material, Sam glanced over his shoulder at the other young male interns slowly trickling into the locker room. He didn't recognize a single face from his own school, but guessed it had to do with the fact that he chose to start his internship in an entirely different state. Most graduates started out in a place close to home.

Then again, none of the others in his class had a medical clinic named after their deceased mother here at Wayward Saints. Sam belonged here, working alongside Dean and roaming the same halls that his father had filled with the sound of echoed footsteps so many years ago.

Kicking his jeans off, he slipped two long, lanky legs into the pants of his scrubs. As he knelt to lace his sneakers back up, a pair of socked feet padded over into his line of vision.

"Jesus," came an unfamiliar voice. "I didn't know they even made scrubs that size."

Sam looked up through a curtain of chocolate bangs, locking onto the face of an intern with big, bright eyes the colour of steel, and a tuft of messy dirty blond hair. His face was soft, sweet looking, with a rounded jaw and pink lips, but the dark arches of his brows gave him an air of intensity that couldn't be ignored. And Christ, he even looked a few years younger than Sam was. He was leaning against the nearest locker, a smirk spread across his handsome features, arms crossed over his chest.

Sam's brows furrowed. "…Excuse me?"

"Relax, big guy. I'm just teasing." The blond extended a hand. "Name's Adam Milligan."

Laces knotted up, Sam straightened himself to his full size which, unsurprisingly, towered over Adam by a good four inches. Then again, Sam had yet to meet anyone in his life who he could look up to. Literally.

"Sam Winchester," he clasped hands with the blond and shook firmly.

"…Winchester." Adam narrowed those steel eyes of his, scrutinizing the much taller intern. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

Sam shrugged, reaching for the shirt of his scrubs and pulling that on as well. "My family's worked at this hospital for generations. My dad and grandparents were all doctors here at some point. It's just me and my brother, now."

Adam whistled low. "Taking on the family business, huh?"

"You could say that."

"Adam, are you still bothering people?" A second voice chimed in, and they both turned just in time to see another male intern work the latch open on the locker right next to Sam's.

He was short, with a head of thick chestnut waves that looked like he'd just rolled fresh out of bed, and soft dark eyes still slightly hazed over with early morning exhaustion. His jaw was unshaven, and he donned a hoodie that looked about three sizes too big for the guy. Frankly, he reminded Sam a little of a puppy.

Or a stoner.

"It's not bothering, Andy." Adam drawled, rounding the wooden bench to his own locker. "I'm getting to know the competition."

Sam frowned, befuddled. "Competition? We're co-workers. Or at least going to be."

Adam snatched up his own mound of minty scrubs and began undressing. "Co-workers who are all aiming to be the best of the best. Only one of us can become chief resident at the end and, no offense to any of you saps, but I really don't care whose toes I gotta step on to make it there."

"That position isn't open for us for years, and that's only if we pass our intern exams and actually get into residency." Sam pointed out, bristling.

"What better way than to start aiming for it from the get go?" Adam placed one foot up on the bench and began lacing his sneakers. "I'm not here to make friends, kiddies. I'm here to work."

Andy pulled his too-big hoodie off and rolled his eyes while turning to Sam. "Don't mind him. He's an ass."

"Hey, Andy, before you start fraternizing with our 'co-worker', you should know the guy has people on the inside." Adam shot over.

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Say what?" Andy added with a cocked brow.

"His family name is pretty big around here, apparently. Bet you any money they'd go easy on him cause of that." Steel eyes glared over Sam. "Give him all the best clinic duties, no paper work. Hell, maybe they'll let him scrub in on a surgery or two."

"They won't." Sam cocked his jaw.

"Oh no?" Adam smirked slowly. "So you'd turn down a surgery if it was offered up to you on a silver platter for no reason?"

"Yeah, I would."

"Bull. Shit."

Sam nearly lost it, chest swelling with anger. He was lucky there was a bench between him and Adam, or he would have made sure the back of the guy's skull got nice and acquainted with the locker door. "If I earned it, then I have every right to be in that O.R. I won't take something I don't deserve, but I know I'm a damn good doctor."

Adam clicked his tongue, and slammed his locker door shut with his hip. "We'll just see about that."

After Adam sauntered out of the locker room, Sam growled and drove his fist into the door of his own locker, leaving a massive dent behind and a stinging ache in his knuckles. This was precisely why he'd gone to medical school out of state. He was a stranger there, a nobody; just a kid with a goal and no family legacy that followed him around. The name Winchester meant nothing back then.

But now? Here? He was set up on a Goddamn pedestal and made to live up to the name that his father and his grandfather had made great. Dean was headed in the right direction, no doubt about that. Still in his thirties and already the head of an entire department. He was doing just fine.

Sam had earned his medical degree. He'd earned every right to be here at Wayward Saints, and he didn't have his father's name to help him with that.

The fact that he had to prove himself a second time, with an entire hospital full of standards that he needed to live up to and surpass?

Made his damn stomach turn.

"Hey, don't worry about him," Andy's gentle voice snapped Sam out of his rage-hazed thoughts. "He was always an ass back in school, too. Don't take it personally. He picks on everyone."

Sam huffed a breath and rubbed his bruised knuckles. "Sorry, I…" He shook his head, and pushed his bangs out of his eyes. "Today is just not starting off the way I'd imagined."

"First day jitters, bro. Happens with everyone." Andy stuffed his head through the neck of his scrubs shirt and wiggled the rest of himself inside. He threw a hand out. "I'm Andy Gallagher, by the way."

"Sam Winchester."

Andy's eyes narrowed the same way Adam's had when the dreaded last name was mentioned. "Winchester… Winchester…" He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "There's a Mary Winchester clinic in this hospital, isn't there?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Named after my mom. She passed away a long time ago."

The usual jealous sneer or glare Sam usually received after mentioning anything regarding his family's importance in this hospital was completely absent in the way Andy looked up at him. Those brown eyes shone with nothing but genuine sadness.

"Real sorry, man." Andy clapped the side of his arm. "Not easy losing a mom."

Sam blinked. He blinked multiple times until he had to force himself to turn away and clear the knot that had suddenly appeared in his throat. "Um… Thanks."

"No prob." The sound of Andy's locker door shutting brought Sam back around. "Guess we should get moving and meet up with the others."

Sam nodded in agreement and gathered up his binder, just in case he was required to take any notes, and his cold coffee. He shut his locker and followed Andy out into the halls, weaving through the rush of nurses and doctors as they went about their hectic morning duties.

"So, what're you interested in taking, big guy?" Andy asked.

"Cardiology." Sam said, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

"A heart man, huh? Good stuff." Andy dodged a gurney as it was pushed passed them. "I'm hoping to get into Ortho, myself. I dig bones. Pun not intended."

Sam laughed and sipped at his cold coffee. He grimaced at the taste. "Ugh. So, what's the ass looking into mastering?"

"Adam's a Neuro junkie."

"Brain surgery. Not surprised." Sam snorted. "Goes well with his fat head."

Andy cracked up.

Just down the wide corridor they turned into, sitting pretty between the ambulance bay and the E.R., was the Mary Winchester Medical Clinic. Sam had never seen the thing in person before, but man, was it spectacular. The place was small, but well equipped with two rows of clean white beds, a main desk, a private consultation room, and was stocked with enough equipment to deal with any minor medical need that came in through those doors. And it was right across from the E.R., which made it ideal to rush any patient that needed special care out of there in no time flat.

Plus, the fact of seeing his mother's name in polished silver lettering right above the main doors had Sam's chest tightening up, and he wasn't sure if it was pride or pain that he was feeling.

His dad's money went to good use.

Outside of the clinic, a group of about eight young interns in their bright mint scrubs were gathered together in a tight-knit group, surrounding three figures that Sam didn't recognize.

On the left, a short gentleman in a sharp tailored black suit stood with his arms folded behind his back, chest puffed out as he overlooked the crowd of young hopefuls. His dark tuft of receding hair was brushed back neatly, and his hazel-eyed gaze was sharp, and downright snakelike. There was a slight curl to his lips, as though he was amused by all of this. Sam had no idea who this man was. No white coat meant he was no doctor, but he had a feeling that crossing him was the very last thing he wanted to do.

The guy looked like he could rip your very soul right out of you and dance it straight to hell.

Next to him, a male and female doctor were quietly conversing amongst themselves. She had dark hair pinned back into a tight bun, and thin, arched brows over a pair of kind brown eyes that were already beginning to crease at the corners. He, on the other hand, was much younger, and outstandingly handsome with a strong angular jaw and a head of thick dark hair. He stood tall and lean, hands stuffed into the pockets of his long white coat, and the air around him practically crackled with his pride and strength.

He was important. Sam knew that without question.

As Sam and Andy found their way into the crowd, the droning hum of chatter from the interns died down to nervous silence when the female doctor turned her attention over. Her voice was deep, and carried a pleasant husk to it.

"Alright, listen up." She called out. "My name is Dr. Ellen Harvelle. I'm the Chief Resident here at Wayward Saints Hospital, and I will be your mentor throughout your internship." Her eyes found each of theirs as she spoke. "Don't bother trying to get to know me, or trying to be friends. I'm not here for that. I'm here to teach you and help you grow into magnificent doctors, while making sure you don't kill anyone on the way. You all may have been top of your class at medical school, but here, you are bottom of the barrel, and you will not eat, sleep, or place a single finger on a patient without my say so."

Sam watched as three nurses handed each of them a small black pager with a clip for their belts. He hooked his up quickly as he tried to pay attention to Dr. Harvelle's next words.

"You answer only to me, the Attending's you will have the absolute privilege of working under, or the pagers on your belt. I don't care where you are, who you are with, or what time it is. As soon as these things go off, you answer them at a dead run. You were handed your trauma protocol and phone list booklets when given your scrubs this morning. Read them. Memorize them. And fast."

Andy lifted his eyes to meet Sam's, where they exchanged a nervous look. He wouldn't be surprised if every single one of these interns was shaking in their boots. Hell, a couple of them had even gone as pale as fog.

Not Adam, though. The bastard looked cool as a cucumber.

"Your main focus will be here in the clinic, where I and a handful of trusted nurses will monitor you at every hour." Dr. Harvelle continued, gesturing to the room over her shoulder. "You will be running labs, and working orders non-stop, so sleep when you can in one of our on-call rooms and when you are certain that no one's life is in need of your help. You will be given the chance at a case with an Attending when it is convenient for them, but you will only be there for observational purposes, and to perform minor tasks."

Sam nodded along with a handful of others, understanding the terms. He'd already been given a brief run through of the rules back in school.

"You will not be allowed within the O.R.'s without authorization from myself and an Attending. And if you think you'll be getting your eager little hands on any surgeries, you just wipe that thought out of your pretty little heads, because it ain't happening." Dr. Harvelle fisted her hands on each of her hips. "Surgeries are for the experienced and the skilled, and the only way you'll be seeing the inside of an O.R. is from within the observation decks. You earn your right into those rooms, and believe me when I say I will not make it easy for that to happen."

He was surprised at how relieved that made him feel. As challenging as it was all going to be, the very fact of _earning_ his right into those operating rooms, without it being handed over to him because of his last name, sent an eager thrill rushing through him.

He could do this.

"Your first shifts will begin this afternoon after a tour through each of our departments, where you will meet every one of our Department Heads, and get a feel for what we do here at Wayward Saints. Your shift will last forty eight hours straight, and you will work every second night in these halls until you drop." She lifted her hands toward them. "Any questions?"

The dead silence that followed was enough of an answer to bring a satisfied smirk to Dr. Harvelle's lips. It seemed she enjoyed her fair share of intimidation.

No wonder. She was good at it.

"Good." She gestured to the handsome young gentleman to her right. "I now give the floor to Dr. Michael Caito. Your Chief of Surgery."

"Holy shit," Andy squeaked next to him. "That guy is the _Chief_?"

Sam had to admit, he was as stunned as Andy was. To be that young and running an entire hospital was a rarity in the medical world. He watched in awe as Chief Caito swept forward, watching them from beneath a pair of dark slashed eyebrows. He had a raptor's gaze, one that penetrated you right to the marrow of your bone. Icy cold, and viciously stern. It caused Sam to swallow hard, and shift uneasily from where he stood.

"I'll keep my speech a tad briefer than Dr. Harvelle's." He said, addressing the fresh young faces before him. His voice was like thunder, nearly rattling the floor beneath their feet. "You're all here because of one reason, and that is to help people. To save lives. You are the future of this hospital, and I have high expectations for each and every one of you. Wayward Saints houses some of the finest doctors this country has ever seen, and I don't expect that to change when you're all running the show in the many years to come." He smiled, but it was brief, and didn't even reach his eyes. "People are counting on you. As am I. Try not to let either one of us down."

There was a roar of applause from the interns as the Chief stepped back, some of the more eager clapping coming from a group of young women at the front of the group. Sam didn't have to look at their faces to know that they were probably all more than happy to serve under that man in any way they could.

In more ways than one.

Dr. Harvelle looked over at the snakelike gentleman standing silently to her left. "This is Dr. Crowley McLeod, and he's the Dean of Medicine and administrator here at Wayward Saints. I asked him here to meet all of you on your first day, as you probably won't be seeing much of him in the months to come." She smiled at him, and it seemed genuine enough. "Do you have anything to say to our interns before I take them away, Dr. McLeod?"

When Dr. McLeod spoke, his heavily-accented voice was laced with a strange mixture of velvet and gravel. "Just try not to kill anyone while you're all here, would you?" He smiled pleasantly. "You don't have to answer to the Board of Directors at the end of each day."

And that was it. He turned and left without a word more, Chief Caito following right behind while the rest of them stood in dumbstruck silence.

"Alright." Dr. Harvelle clapped her hands together. "Let's get moving."

As the ten of them attempted to keep up with Dr. Harvelle's pace while she marched down the stretch of hallway toward the Plastics Department, Sam stayed at the back of the pack, knowing his long legs would keep him from straying too far behind. Andy, though, had to practically jog to stay at his side. The sound of their squeaking sneakers on the linoleum floors echoed through the corridors.

"So, what do you think of our bosses?" Sam asked him.

"I'm genuinely terrified."

"No kidding," Sam frowned, not understanding why Dean had never informed him of how harsh his mentors were going to be.

Then again, they were probably only this way toward the interns.

Bottom of the barrel, and all that.

"Try not to take it all to heart," Came the sweet silver bell voice of a female intern who was walking ahead of them. She turned, and flashed them both a bright smile, her blue eyes glowing with excitement. She had a wild mane of blonde waves that bounced along behind her. "They gotta be tough if they want us to get through this."

"Eavesdropping, are you?" Sam couldn't help but smile.

"I like to call it having an open ear," She reached back and extended a hand. "I'm Jessica Moore. Friends call me Jess."

"Sam Winchester." They clasped hands. "This is Andy Gallagher."

"Pleased to meet you," Andy added, shaking her hand right after.

"Ditto," Jess stuffed her hands into the pockets of her scrubs and slowed her pace down just enough to walk alongside them. "You boys excited for the tour today? I can't wait until we get to the Otolaryngology Department."

"The what?" Andy looked befuddled.

"Ear, nose, and throat." Sam muttered to him.

"And head and neck!" Jess added with a grin, clearly having heard him. "It's not the most glorified of the departments, and I definitely won't be getting the most serious cases in the place, but it does get a steady stream of patients. I'd never get bored, that's for sure."

Sam smiled softly, finding her enthusiasm and genuine warmth admirable. "So, you're really not in it for the title?"

"Psh!" She flicked a delicate wrist. "That's not what being a doctor is about. Not to me, anyways. I don't have to shove my hands in a guy's chest cavity or poke around inside a skull to be great at what I do. Sure, I probably won't be headlined in any Medical Journals or be responsible for life-changing research, but the fact that I'll come to work every day knowing that I'm going to make someone feel better is all I need to be happy."

"That's really refreshing to hear from an intern." Sam nodded.

"Stupid's more like it."

Sam shot a fierce glare over at the speaker of those last words. "Mind your own Goddamn business, Adam."

"Or what?" Adam snickered, running his steel eyes over Jess. "Listen, sweetheart, if you don't want to be chewed up and spat out in this race, you gotta aim a little higher than ear, nose, and throat." He sneered. "And learn to pick a better crowd to hang with."

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Jess beat him to it.

"Let me guess, you're aiming for Neurology?"

If Adam's chest swelled with anymore pride, his scrubs would've torn right down the middle. "Damn right I am."

"Figures." She smirked. "It suits your fat head."

Sam didn't bother waiting for Adam to turn away before he and Andy simultaneously high-fived her, and the appalled and downright loathing expression on the other male intern's face was simply icing on the cake.

As their group finally slowed to a halt within the Plastics Department, Sam peered over the heads of his colleagues at the ridiculously handsome gentleman standing by Dr. Harvelle's side. The man was everything he expected out of the Head of Plastic Surgery; wild blonde hair, sun-kissed skin, stunning powder blue eyes, and a lean body beneath his white coat that you just knew probably belonged in the centerfold of a raunchy magazine. To top it off? A Goddamn French accent, and a name that sounded as pretentious as the man it belonged to.

Dr. Balthazar Durrand.

While the Head of Plastics gazed across the crowd with as much arrogance and distaste as the men that had spoken before him, Sam had only one thing on his mind:

This was going to be a long day.


	3. Chapter 3

Before the clock could flash noon on the obnoxiously bright screen of Sam's cell phone, he was already in need of a nap, and about six more cups of coffee.

As the morning had pressed on, Dr. Harvelle had taken Sam and the other nine interns in circles around Wayward Saints in order to meet up with each of the Department Heads, and it had felt more like being led toward a firing squad than anything else. If he'd been confident and enthusiastic about his first day of internship earlier this morning, he was anything but, now. These doctors were ruthless, blunt, and downright unsettling to be around in Sam's opinion. Brilliant, yes, and incredible in their fields, but they scared the ever-loving crap out of him.

The fact that he had to work under these people just added to this magnificent little clusterfuck that was now his future career.

It had all stated off with Dr. Balthazar Durrand in the Plastics Department, whose arrogance made even Adam looked like a genuinely humble being. With his striking smile and thick blonde hair, he had practically every female intern fawning after him. Even Jess got a little starry-eyed when he addressed her flawless jaw structure and nose shape.

He spoke quickly, walked quickly, and didn't allow any questions to be asked by the interns. Much like Dr. Harvelle, he was sharp, to the point, but blunt in a way of being downright condescending. With his white coat billowing out behind him, he'd led them all through the halls of the department, which were exquisitely decorated with pots of fresh flowers and cushioned chairs, and large poster-sized photographs of beautiful people with enough plastic in their bodies to melt if they got too close to a radiator.

While Dr. Durrand rambled on in that irritatingly charming manner of his, he swept through a few of the surgical suites and allowed them all an inside look to a few of the surgeries he had planned. A few nose jobs and a fair amount of breast augmentations were to be expected but, surprisingly enough, Dr. Durrand was planning to completely reconstruct the face of a young woman who had been shot at point-blank range by her abusive husband, and required an entire new left cheekbone, eye socket, nose, and most of a jaw.

Okay. Sam had to admit, that was kind of awesome.

After that, they'd headed to Orthopaedics, and Andy practically skipped alongside Sam in his sheer excitement. He'd even asked to borrow Sam's binder just in case he needed to take notes. There, the head of the department was Dr. Bela Talbot, a tall and stunning creature with pale green eyes and a smirk that Sam wasn't sure if he could call enchanting or vicious. She carried herself with pride and dignity, gliding through the halls with her long ash brown waves swaying behind her, her clear and lovely English-accented voice calling for them to keep up.

She'd brought them to a small, dark room lined with light boxes that displayed a staggering number of x-rays from anonymous patients. There was even a full skeleton constructed entirely out of human bone, which she wheeled over during her presentation and allowed them to touch as long as they were gentle and didn't have 'grubby little fingers' as she put it.

Dr. Talbot allowed for questions, but had a tendency to offer a look of utter pity when something stupid was asked. The worst was the one she gave to Sam, like she was wondering how on earth this poor over-sized child even made through medical school in the first place.

Ouch. Right in the dignity.

Sam needed a coffee after that one, and he was lucky enough to have their tour pass right by the cafeteria on the way to the Trauma Department. He would've grabbed one for Dean as well, but the last thing he wanted was for everyone to think he was sucking up to the Department Head. It was bad enough the guy was of immediate blood relation to him.

Ever the one to make an unforgettable first-impression, Dean had been waiting for them outside of the department, and what do you know, he had ditched his suit and tie and was donning a set of dark blue freshly blood-stained scrubs. He'd just gotten out of a surgery involving the removal of a chainsaw blade from a man's shoulder, and hadn't bothered to change.

Sam had a feeling he just liked the shock-value of it all. Most of the interns had paled at the sight of their head Trauma surgeon looking like he'd been finger-painted in gore.

When Dean went through the motions of giving them a tour of his department, Sam was reminded a lot of the way really young children would repress the urge to wave at the familiar face of their parent in the audience during a school recital. During his tour, Dean kept flashing him slight grins and the occasional thumbs-up, and Sam had tried to keep himself at the very back of the group so he couldn't drop dead from embarrassment.

Of course, with Dean being referred to as Dr. Winchester, Sam had already earned his fair share of glares and dirty looks from the group, ninety-three percent of them from Adam.

Douche.

He was lucky that Dean kept his presentation short and sweet, leaving all questions until the end before Dr. Harvelle hurried them off to the Oncology Department. Sam was pretty certain he had holes bored into his skull with the way the surrounding interns had looked at him, especially when Dean had waved Sam farewell and wished him luck with the remainder of his day.

Sam made a mental note to kick him in the ass later.

Oncology was run by Dr. Robert Singer, a familiar face from Sam's childhood. Bobby had been best friends with their father throughout medical school and his work at Wayward Saints, and he was the closest thing they had to an uncle. He was a stern man, older, with large bear-like hands and a receding hairline and thick beard that already glinted with silver. His presentation had been a solemn one, and he'd refused to bring the group of them through the doors and into the department, because he didn't want to subject his patients to being seen as a stop in a tour, ready to be ogled at like they were science projects. They'd get a chance to meet with them when they were scheduled to.

Cancer victims had enough to deal with.

Sam always had incredible respect for Bobby, but even more so today when he'd seen him in his element. Bobby was far more subtle than Dean had been in his recognition of Sam, refusing to even make eye-contact with him until the end of the tour, where he'd just nodded once in greeting before disappearing back through the doors.

They hadn't spoken much since the death of Sam's father; the occasional phone call, an email or two a month, just to catch up and check in. Bobby never pried, never clung or meddled, but Sam found comfort in knowing he was there, just within reach whenever he was needed.

It'd be nice to catch up after so long.

Next stop in the tour had been Paediatrics, run by a lovely woman named Dr. Anna Milton. She was all smiles when she greeted them upon arrival, her fiery hair pulled back into a loose braid, and colourful stickers adorning her nametag. She was sweet, with a soft voice and doe-like brown eyes. She reminded Sam of some enchanted being that belonged in a fairytale, quick and quiet and gentle. Perfect for her field of work.

She had allowed the interns into a room with big walls painted with scenes of the ocean and the circus and the forest, where nurses monitored the ill or injured children as they coloured and watched cartoons and played with toys. Dr. Milton introduced them to the kids, who had no fear in coming up and greeting them with smiles so bright, it was hard to envision them in any kind of pain.

Though the occasional head of missing hair, breathing tubes, bandages, and casts many of them had were enough of a reminder.

Sam had struck up a conversation with a little four-year old patient on a beanbag chair about her stuffed moose doll, which she said she'd taken with her to all of her operations. Six, to be exact. There had apparently been something wrong with her heart since birth, and all the nice doctors were fixing her right up. Mr. Moosie had been with her through the entire journey, and she had spoken to Sam and only Sam because he reminded her of him.

Sam almost didn't want to say goodbye when the group of them had to move on.

And it all led up to now, in the Neurology Department under the care of Dr. Chuck Shurley. A slender little man with a head of ashen waves and eyes so eerily blue, that Sam wasn't sure if they were beautiful or unsettling. He had a kind of scruffy just-rolled-out-of-bed look much like Andy, jaw unshaven and tie askew under his long white coat. He was nothing like what Sam had imagined as being the head of brain surgery.

Frankly, he'd pictured a big-headed asshat like Adam, strutting about his precious department like a peacock while quoting Hamlet as he held up a human brain.

Most Neurology surgeons fit that description pretty damn well, but not Dr. Shurley. He was soft-spoken, humble, but incredibly bright as he addressed the group of them in a dark room much like the one Dr. Talbot had brought them into. Each of the light boxes on the wall held an image of a human brain scanned using the hospital's MRI machines, and Dr. Shurley gestured to each one of them using a laser pointer to indicate the different medical problems; the physical, such as aneurisms, strokes, clots, brain bleeds, and tumours; and the mental, like schizophrenia, and Alzheimer's.

After Sam finished checking the time on his phone, he lifted his head to catch the tail end of Dr. Shurley's presentation.

"…and we're hoping the results of this clinical trial will allow us to get that much closer to a cure for Alzheimer's." Dr. Shurley stated as he fiddled with his laser pointer. "It's going to be a long and rather risky trial, and we have many patients willing to be tested, so we're hoping for promising results. It'll be a new steppingstone in the direction of finally curing that disease."

Unsurprisingly, Adam raised his hand to ask a question. "What will happen if some form of a cure is found during your trial?"

"Uhm," Dr. Shurley clicked his tongue as he pondered. "Huge, huge progress in the medical world." He threw his arms open. "It would be life-changing! Millions of people with this disease would be able to remember again, would be able to think clearly again. Hospitals from around the globe would get involved. It would be a phenomenon."

"And if it doesn't cure it?" Adam asked.

Dr. Shurley seemed to deflate somewhat at that, and ran his fingers back through his already mussed hair. "Then, we dust ourselves off, keep our heads high, and find something else that will. It's all we can do."

"Who will be running these trials?" Jess chimed in.

"Myself," Dr. Shurley nodded. "And one of the residents of my choosing."

Sam couldn't help but smirk smugly at the flicker of disappointment in Adam's eyes when he knew that no intern would be involved in such ground-breaking research.

"Alright, I think we're all done here," Dr. Harvelle stepped forward and clasped hands with Dr. Shurley. "Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to meet with them."

"It was my pleasure," Dr. Shurley bowed slightly as the interns applauded. "Good luck to all of you on your journey ahead. I look forward to working alongside you all in the future."

Sam sipped at the last half of his coffee while following the group out of the Neuro Department and towards their next stop. His feet were starting to ache in his sneakers from all the walking and standing, and his back was begging for him to take a seat for just five minutes. Andy and Jess looked no better as they walked next to him, rolling their shoulders and chugging their own cups of coffee.

"I never thought I'd say this, but I _really_ just want this to be over with so I can get to work," Andy grumbled.

"Any news as to where we're headed next?" Sam asked.

"Cardiology, most likely." Jess shrugged. "It's the only department left, I think."

Andy smiled. "Good news for you, eh Sam? You finally get the chance to see your department."

"Yeah right," Sam snorted. "If the Head of my dream field is anything like yours, then I'm completely screwed."

"C'mon, Dr. Talbot wasn't _that_ bad."

"She told me I had the skeletal structure of a Neanderthal." Sam frowned deeply.

"And she addressed me as Malibu Barbie." Jess added.

Andy scrubbed his hand over his unshaven face. "Okay, okay, so she's a bit mean…"

"A bit?"

"Hey, I'm trying to be optimistic here." Andy said with a sob in his voice. "That woman's going to be my boss for as long as I want to be a doctor at this hospital, and I really need to see a silver lining before I just decide to walk into oncoming traffic."

Sam patted him on the back as the group slowed to a halt outside of the Cardiology Department, and he lifted his head to get a good look at who his future boss was going to be.

He saw no one.

Dr. Harvelle was standing alone outside of the department doors, her arms crossed beneath her breasts as she waited for their soft chatter to die to silence. Sam's frown deepened, and he found himself wondering if the Head of Cardio had completely forgotten about the tour, or just never cared to show up.

Neither one of those options was working in Sam's favour.

"Settle down, settle down," Dr. Harvelle lifted her hands. "I know you're all probably wondering where your Department Head is at the moment, and I have some good news. He's currently in the middle of an Arrhythmia treatment surgery, and has asked you all into the observation booth to watch him in action."

A thrill shot right through Sam's body at that news. Arrhythmia treatment surgery was a minor operation, requiring nothing more than the insertion of a pacemaker or an Implantable Cardioverter defibrillator in order to steady a heart that was beating too fast or too slow. It was the very first heart surgery Sam had ever performed and succeeded in medical school on a cadaver body.

"After the surgery, you'll all gather back out here, and Dr. Wesson will answer any questions—"

Sam didn't quite catch the rest of that sentence, because he was currently choking on the sip of coffee he'd just taken.

"Dr. Winchester?" He heard Dr. Harvelle ask. "Are you all right?"

He felt Andy's hand on his back, patting and rubbing. Sam wiped the dripping coffee from his chin and coughed. "D-did you say… Dr. Wesson?" His heart pounded wildly, and he was certain it had nothing to do with the fact that his lungs were screaming for air. "Like, Dr. _Gabriel_ Wesson?"

Dr. Harvelle arched a thin brow. "That'd be him."

Sam tried to steady his composure, but the excitement he felt was like electric fire in his veins, and he could barely stand still. He smoothed down the front of his scrubs, and kept his eyes to the linoleum to avoid the odd stares of the surrounding interns.

Dr. Wesson. Dr. Gabriel Wesson. One of the greatest minds in the medical world, the very reason Sam had developed a passion for medicine, was the Head of Cardiology at Wayward Saints Hospital. The hospital that Sam now worked at. The hospital where he was going to train to be a heart surgeon. Probably under the guidance of Dr. Wesson, himself.

He wasn't entirely certain if he was going to cartwheel down the hallway or vomit.

Why hadn't Dean told him?

"Let's head inside," Dr. Harvelle called out. "Please, be as quiet as possible, and don't get rowdy in the booth. Dr. Wesson doesn't need a distraction."

"You okay, man?" Andy asked softly as the group of them started moving. "Need some air or something?"

Sam shook his head as he lifted his trembling cup of coffee to his lips and took a large gulp of it. "No, no, I'm fine…"

Shuffling closely together, the group of interns poured down one long, wide hallway toward the O.R.'s of the Cardiology Department. As Sam walked, he peered into every office, every consultation room, every open door he passed. He absorbed the environment that would eventually be his home at the end of his residency. The air was cool, scenting of lemon floor cleaner and sterile metal, the halls wide to allow the passing of gurneys, the pale blue walls devoid of much decoration save for the occasional abstract painting and chart. He imagined Dr. Wesson in these halls, performing consultations and surgeries, saving hundreds of lives.

He imagined himself working alongside him.

He also imagined himself kicking Dean square in the ass for having kept this all a Goddamn secret.

"Quickly, now," Dr. Harvelle placed a finger to her lips as she held the door to the observation booth open and ushered them all in.

Sam managed to snatch up a seat right in the front row in between Andy and Jess, with Adam right behind him and Dr. Harvelle hovering above everyone from her perch in the back. The few hushed whispers exchanged around him were drowned out by the thundering of his own heartbeat in his ears.

"Wow…" He breathed.

Through the angled pane of glass, Sam could see the entire floor of the O.R. down below. Nurses donned in pale blue scrubs and masks surrounded the table where the patient lay. The body was draped over in tarps, save for a carefully measured patch right smack in the center of his chest, which was currently cracked wide open, exposing the heart. Long lines of tubing were connected to the patients body to allow for oxygen and I.V., bright spotlights above illuminated the open chest cavity so nothing could be missed, massive machines monitoring heart rate and breathing beeped and flashed around him.

The environment was calm, quiet, and controlled, like a machine with every last conk and crane and wheel working harmoniously together to get the job done.

It was nothing like what Dean did.

And right there, in the very center of it all with his hands practically buried in the chest of his patient, was Dr. Gabriel Wesson.

Sam had never seen him in person. Just the occasional photo online and in the Journals he had stashed in his locker. He was a hell of a lot shorter than he imagined, and his face was mostly hidden away by a surgical mask and cap, and a pair of glasses with attacked magnifiers which allowed him to work with as much precise accuracy as possible. He caught a bit of caramel blonde hair sticking out from beneath his cap, lush and wavy and falling down the back of his neck.

Sam only snapped out of his star-struck daze when he caught Adam's snickers behind him.

"Jeez, don't fog up the glass, Winchester," he smirked. "Unless you're planning to draw a heart in the condensation."

Sam shot him a fierce glare, but turned away before he could give that jackass the satisfaction of noticing the blush heating up his cheeks. He rested his elbows on his knees and sat at the very edge of his seat, taking note of every last move Dr. Wesson made.

Almost as if he knew he was being watched so intently, Dr. Wesson's focus shifted briefly from the patient and up to the observation booth full of interns. Even from this distance, Sam felt their eyes lock onto each other, and the stare held.

He just about had a heart attack of his very own right then and there.

* * *

><p>"They're waiting for you outside, Dr. Wesson."<p>

Gabriel glanced over his shoulder at the tiny blonde nurse standing in the doorway of the O.R., her wide green eyes slightly creased at the corners from the bright grin she was no doubt sporting beneath her surgical mask. He smiled in return as he tore off the blood-soaked scrubs he had on over his suit, balled them up, and stuffed them into the nearest metal disposal bin.

"I'll be right out, Becky. Thank you." He nodded, peeling off his latex gloves and pitching them in as well.

Once left alone, Gabriel went over to the sink and turned the tap, filling the basin with icy cold water. He rinsed the sweat off his hands, and then splashed his face twice, fingers running back through his hair as he released a heavy breath of air. It was time to meet with the very last group of interns, and Gabriel could not have been more thankful. He'd already given five tours since strolling into work this morning and, frankly, this year's batch of wide-eyed hopefuls weren't exactly impressing him.

Then again, his department was the final stop of the hospital tour, and his colleagues always enjoyed traumatizing the interns before sending them over to him. By the time they reached Cardiology, they were sore, exhausted, antsy, and downright nerve-wracked.

Poor suckers. Fresh Meat Day was only getting them warmed up for the sweet circle of hell that was going to be their first year of internship.

Shutting off the water, Gabriel reached for his white coat and slipped it on, sighing contentedly at the comforting weight of it settled on his shoulders. He smoothed down the lapels and grabbed his stethoscope, which he then draped over the back of his neck. When he stuffed his hands into his pockets, he felt two things.

In one pocket, a grape lollipop he'd managed to swipe from Anna's stash, which he made quick work of unwrapping and popping into his mouth. In the other pocket, a crinkled up piece of paper he'd found pinned under his bike's tire when he'd gone out for a coffee break before surgery. It was a page from one of his Medical Journals; the very same Journals that Dean Winchester's charming little brother had dropped when Gabriel nearly ran his ass over earlier this morning.

The kid was in the final group of interns.

He'd probably want it back.

As he savoured the sticky sweetness of the grape lolly on his tongue, Gabriel flung open the doors of the O.R. and stepped out into the hallway, where Ellen was waiting with her group of interns. He took her hand in a firm shake when he reached her side, and took in each young face before him. As expected, they looked beaten down to the core.

He introduced himself, repeating the same blah, blah, blah's that he'd used on the five groups before them, explaining his field of work and all the things the Cardiology Department at Wayward Saints had to offer. He spoke about his patient, and about the surgery they had all just had the pleasure of witnessing. He made a thorough run-through of all the equipment he used, what kinds of cases usually came through the doors on a daily basis, and what his labs were currently working on in terms of clinical trials and research.

The exhausted expression of each face he gazed upon was something Gabriel was used to, but at least they had the decency to pay attention, and look at least somewhat interested in what he was yammering on about.

Except for one familiar face in the back, who towered above all the interns before him. Dean Winchester's brother had his binder open and was scribbling down every word that Gabriel had to say, soft hazel eyes tearing themselves from the paper to watch him in case he did anything remotely important. He looked just as worn down from his day as everyone else was, but there was a bounce to his step; an eagerness and excitement that was lost in the rest of the interns.

Huh. Admirable.

Once his speech was over and done with, and his lollipop had been worn down to nothing but a layer of sweetness over a paper stick, Gabriel rubbed his palms together.

"Now, I know that this is the part where you all get to ask any questions you may have about my department, but I think I want to do things a little differently today." He smirked around the stick in his mouth. "I'm going to ask _you_ some questions."

The collective nervous gulp from the lot of them was downright hilarious.

"You have been handed over a newborn patient that had been diagnosed with Ectopia Cordis." He stated. "Does anyone know what that means?"

"He was born with a congenital heart malformation where his heart has grown either partially or completely outside of his body." A lovely young blonde answered.

"Good." Gabriel nodded. "You were handed over this patient, and he needs to get into surgery, or he risks dying within hours. The mortality rate of this condition is extremely high, and only on the rare occasion does a child born with it actually survive. What would you do to make sure this child is one of the lucky who make it?"

There was a long moment of silence, and then…

"I would place the heart back into the body." Dean's little brother chimed in.

Gabriel looked at him with a frown. "That's it?"

"I would have to take in the extent of the cardiac displacement beforehand." The kid said. "Evaluate any presence or absence of intercardiac defects, and then go from there. The heart would have to be disconnected from the aortic artery in order to be placed back into the chest cavity, and then reattached, perhaps with the help of a Coronary Artery Bypass Graft surgery, where we'd use an artery from his leg to replace any damage the aorta would have taken. We'd then create a skin flap using a graft from the child's back and use it to close him up."

Gabriel stood in silent disbelief for only God-knew-how-long, before Ellen nudged his side, forcing him to say something.

"What's your name, kiddo?"

The boy straightened, large hands curled tightly around the binder he held. "U-um… Sam Winchester, sir."

Gabriel smiled. "You got chops, Winchester. Very good."

The beaming smile that lit up Sam's face right then could have put the damn sun to shame.

"I'm afraid we have to end here, Dr. Wesson," Ellen smiled. "My interns need to get started on their first shift in the clinic."

"Fun stuff." Gabriel clasped hands with her in farewell as the interns applauded. "Thank you guys for coming to see me, and good luck on your first shift at the clinic. Drink loads of coffee."

Ellen clapped her hands together to bring the attention of her interns to her. "Alright! You all get one hour for lunch in the cafeteria starting now, and then we'll meet up in the clinic at two o'clock sharp. The nurses and I will have your orders ready for you."

Gabriel watched as the group of interns dispersed and made way for the cafeteria, and he was just about to head for his own office when the crinkle of paper in his pocket alerted him.

"Winchester!" He called out, bringing Sam's attention to him. "C'mere a sec."

Sam muttered something to two other interns, and then jogged over. Well, not so much jog as take long strides with those ridiculous legs of his. Christ, up close the kid was a good foot taller than he was, with broad linebacker shoulders and a mop of soft chocolate hair that framed a handsome face. His jaw was strong, angular, and he could practically count the flecks of green and gold in those almond-shaped hazel eyes of his.

Damn it, the kid was a gorgeous thing to look at.

"Y-yes, Dr. Wesson?" Sam visibly swallowed.

Gabriel reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper, which he then held out to Sam. "I believe this is yours. You forgot it in the parking lot this morning. It was trapped under the wheel of my bike."

It took Sam a second after looking at the paper before the realization hit him like a pillowcase full of bricks across the skull. His eyes went as wide as dinner plates. "You…" he stammered. "Y-you were the…"

"The asshat." Gabriel grinned brightly.

The manner in which the colour drained right out of Sam's face reminded Gabriel of a damn Looney Tunes cartoon.

"Enjoy your lunch." Gabriel clapped him on the arm. "Be seeing you, kiddo."

He turned away without another word and strolled down the hall toward his office, but risked one last glance over his shoulder at Sam, who was caught between staring at the crumpled up Medical Journal that Gabriel had handed him, and trying to keep himself from passing out.

He had a bright mind, that kid.

Gabriel was going to have fun with him.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean found Sam in the cafeteria sometime around lunch.

The cafeteria at Wayward Saints Hospital was a bustling cornucopia of activity at this hour, with throngs of people shuffling hurriedly to get some nourishment before rushing back to their respective duties. It was a massive space much like the food court at a mall, with a quaint indoor garden of colourful flowers and small, lush trees, and wide bay windows to fill every corner with bright natural light. Row upon row of rich wooden tables filled the center of the room, which was surrounded by a slew of various food vendors, ranging from coffee to pizza to Thai food and sandwiches, and everything in between. Their mingled scents filled the cool air, causing Dean's stomach to twist hungrily.

After changing from his bloodied scrubs and back into his suit and white coat, he'd picked up an apple and some butterscotch pudding from the counter of the sandwich shop. Sam was sitting alone by the windows, forehead pressed against the table's surface and his fingers raked back through his hair, looking like he'd just been run over by a bus. Twice. There wasn't any food in front of him. Just a crumpled piece of paper sitting on top of a leather binder. He didn't even lift his head when Dean came over and slid the opposite chair back so he could sit, the legs scraping loudly against the linoleum.

"Rough day?" Dean asked, peeling back the plastic cover on his pudding.

Sam mumbled something in response, but Dean didn't quite catch it.

"Come again?" Dean bit off a piece of apple, and dunked it into the butterscotch pudding.

When those hazel eyes finally lifted to meet his, the hellfire dancing behind them was enough to make Dean falter when he took a bite of his apple.

"I called Dr. Gabriel Wesson an asshat."

Dean barked a laugh. "Oh, right."

"That's it? That's _all_ you have to say about that?" Sam spat. "Dean, do you have any idea how much of a fool I made of myself? I called Dr. Wesson, Dr. _Gabriel_ Wesson, one of the most brilliant minds in Cardiology _and _my medical idol, an _asshat_!"

"Well, he did almost hit you with his bike, Sammy." Dean pointed out as he chewed. "You kinda reacted the way almost anyone would."

Sam huffed, his broad shoulders sagging. His hair was sticking outward at every angle, mussed from when his fingers were through it. "I would have reacted differently had I known who it actually was under that helmet." The hellfire returned to those eyes. "But _you_ did, didn't you?"

"Yup." Dean nodded once, scooping up another thick dollop of butterscotch.

"Why didn't you ever tell me you worked with him, Dean?" Sam's voice cracked, and he almost looked like a puppy who'd been kicked. "You had years of phone calls from me, and you couldn't just slip in a 'by the way Sam, Dr. Wesson is one of my colleagues and your future boss, so try and make a great first impression when you get here'?"

"Never crossed my mind."

"Never? Really, Dean?" Sam released an exasperated breath and shoved his chair back from the table. "Thanks a lot."

"Aw, c'mon, Sammy. Where you goin'?" Dean asked around his mouthful of apple.

Sam turned away. "I'm getting some food to go."

"No eating with your brother?"

"You're lucky I'm not _kicking_ my brother."

And then he was gone, probably to fetch some of that damn rabbit food he enjoyed so much. Dean slumped back in his chair with a sigh and kicked up his feet so that they rested on Sam's empty seat. Casting olive eyes across the room, he watched the ruckus three tables over, where some of his colleagues sat. Gabriel was among them, feet propped up on the chair opposite him much like how Dean was sitting, head tossed back as he barked out a laugh. Probably from one of Balthazar's jokes. Chuck, Bela, and Anna were among them as well, too busy going over last-minute paperwork and filling their mouths with salad and soup to really pay attention to the conversation.

With a sigh, Dean kicked himself up from his seat, and approached the small, golden-eyed Cardiologist. "Gabe, mind if I talk to you a moment?"

Gabriel's brow quirked, and he took a swig of his Coke. "Sure. What's up?"

Dean cast his eyes around the table at his fellow colleagues, and then lowered his voice. "Can we, uh… y'know? In private?"

And that's when Balthazar chimed in, like he always did. "Look, mate, if you two want to screw, all you have to do is say so. I know a great storage closet where you can pull off a nice quickie before lunch is over."

Dean recoiled, making a face. "Bite me."

"Is that an invitation, love?" Balthazar grinned slowly, the light catching those icy blue eyes of his.

"Ease off him, Balthy," Gabriel snickered, rising to his not-so-impressive height. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his white coat. "C'mon, Deano. Walk with me."

Dean hurried after the other doctor, who moved remarkably quick for his size. He'd have to, being a heart surgeon and all that. They walked without saying a word, moving out of the crowded cafeteria and into the corridor passed a pair of swinging doors.

"So, what's on your mind, Deano?" Gabriel asked, slowing to a stop next to a group of vending machines. His pockets jingled as he fished for change.

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. "Listen… It's about my brother…"

"Ah, the giant angry one." Gabriel smirked, popping a few quarters into the slot and punching in a code. "What about him?"

"He's, ah…" Dean said. "He's… upset, because of what he called you this morning."

"The asshat thing?"

"Yeah," Dean watched as a KitKat bar plopped down into the tray. "He's kinda beating himself up about it. He thinks he made a bad impression on you."

"Oh please. I've been called worse by far less." Gabriel snorted, plucking up the chocolate and unwrapping it. "I met him this morning, on the little tour the interns get around the hospital. He's a real sharp kid, you know that?"

"Top of his class." Dean smiled, feeling a flutter of pride in his chest. "Total geek, but he knows where his head's at. Wants to be a cardiologist someday."

"And he damn well should be." Gabriel snapped off a bar from the KitKat and handed it over to him. "He doesn't have to worry about what I think about him. He's a promising kid. I'd be glad to have him on my team. That's all that matters."

Relief flooded through Dean from his sneakers all the way up, making his shoulders sag. "You think you could tell him that? I don't think he'd believe anything that comes out of my trap right now." He crunched down on the chocolate bar.

"I'll try and make time." Gabriel smiled faintly. "I like seeing the kid squirm whenever we make eye contact."

Dean swallowed his mouthful of chocolate bar, jaw cocking as he ran his eyes over his long-time colleague and friend. His tone softened. "What about you? You doing okay?"

Gabriel didn't meet his eyes as he popped a hunk of KitKat into his mouth. "I'm fine."

'You sure about that? Cause I know you've been sleeping in the on-call rooms and nearby motels lately." Dean frowned. "How long has it been since you've been to your apartment, huh? What one, two weeks? Maybe more?"

Gabriel's jaw visibly clenched. "You know how hard it is for me to go back there."

"Yeah, I get it," Dean's brows furrowed. "Dude, you know that you need only ask, and you're welcome at my place anytime. I've got plenty of room."

"Nah," Gabriel shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, but—"

His words cut out when Dean's pager suddenly went off on his belt. Dean frowned deeply, turning the thing over to read the code on the screen. His heart jumped high in his chest, adrenaline filling his veins in a great surge.

"Emergency?" Gabriel asked.

"Yeah." Dean said. "I gotta get to the ambulance bay."

He didn't bother waiting for Gabriel to respond before spinning on his heel and high-tailing it down the corridor. His sneakers squeaked loudly against the freshly washed linoleum floor, the scent of lemon cleaner filling his nose as he rounded each corner, dodging gurneys and nurses and patients alike. The ambulance bay was overrun with chaos, and Dean had to skid to a halt to throw on a pair of gloves and pale yellow cover gown over his scrubs. He spotted Tessa, his head nurse, rushing over to meet him with a clipboard. Her bob of black hair bounced and fluttered as she jogged.

"What do we got?" He asked her as he bolted toward the gurney holding the patient. His nostrils filled with the heavy iron scent of fresh blood.

"Unidentified male, looks to be around thirty, to thirty-five years old. Deep slice to the throat. Partial penetration to the jugular vein and larynx, epiglottis is severed, and vocal cords damaged."

"Attempted suicide?" Dean asked.

"Doesn't seem like it." Tessa responded. "The gash is deep and wide open, but short. Most likely an attack from behind."

As the gurney rolled close, Dean got a good look at the patient. There were thick towels and mountains of gauze around his throat, attempting to keep him from bleeding out. Spatters of red damn near everywhere. He had tousled dark hair, and a strong square jaw lightly dusted over with stubble. His skin was milky pale, but perhaps that had to do with the amount of blood he'd lost.

"Sir?" Dean called out to him. "Sir, can you open your eyes for me?"

Dark lashes fluttered, the patient's eyelids slowly opening to look up at Dean. The Trauma surgeon was caught breathless for a moment, gazing down into eyes so astonishingly blue, they rivalled the sky itself, even on the clearest of days. Goddamn it, he had never seen a pair of peepers so ridiculously… pretty, before. And this was coming from a guy who looked more model than man.

"U-um, sir, my name is Dr. Dean Winchester. You're at Wayward Saints Hospital." Dean continued, running alongside the gurney as it was wheeled into the nearest surgery room. "Blink once if you understand me."

The man blinked instantly.

"Good. Good man." Dean lifted his head as they burst into the surgery suite, and called out to his scrub nurses as he went to the sink to wash his hands. "Prep him for a preliminary tracheotomy."

"Yes, doctor." One of them called back.

While his team got to work on the patient, Dean tossed off his white coat and shoved his hands under the stream of warm water. He thoroughly lathered himself up to his elbows, before a nurse assisted him in getting into his surgical gloves, mask, and cap. The patient was already partially under with anaesthesia by the time Dean approached his side, and he got a good look at the wound.

Yikes. Tessa was right when she said the damn thing was deep. There was definite damage to his larynx, epiglottis, and vocal cords, and it was a damn miracle the guy's jugular hadn't been completely severed. He would have bled out on the damn ambulance ride.

He'd be lucky if he could even speak after this, frankly.

While Tessa rolled over the trolley lined with surgical tools, Dean went over the procedure in his mind. First, inspect the larynx and make sure there aren't any loose fragments that could block the airway. Then, perform a tracheotomy, and drain and pack the opening with a cocainized plug. The epiglottis would need to be sutured, as will the separated area of the jugular vein. His vocal cords were the least damaged and could easily be repaired, but they would require a great deal of healing in order to properly function once more. A tracheotomy tube would have to be placed in his throat for a few days, until the inflammatory swelling of the larynx goes down enough that it doesn't obstruct respiration. Swallowing would be out of the question for a great number of days, so a catheter would need to be placed in his oesophagus to allow him to eat and drink. Then, he can be closed up and bandaged, and ready for a long few weeks of recovery.

Easy as pie.

"We're ready, Dr. Winchester." Tessa said softly.

"Alright," Dean nodded once, eyes shifting over to the peaceful face of the unconscious patient. Softly, he spoke, even though he knew the other man could not hear him. "You're not gonna die on me. I'll make sure of it."

* * *

><p>The insistent tick, tick, ticking of the clock on the wall behind him, and the continuous scratching of his pen against the mountain of reports piled high around him, had Dr. Robert Singer antsy in his seat. The leather cushion of his chair creaked as he shifted his body, blunt fingers of his free hand tapping along on the dark cherry wood desk. His reading glasses sat snugly at the end of his nose, and everything he was scribbling down was starting to look like God-forsaken chicken scratches.<p>

He'd been in his office for a good chunk of the day, both before and after giving the new interns a little tour of his department, and boy, was he starting to get stir-crazy.

Bobby sighed, pulling his glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. Spears of hot afternoon sunlight bled in through the open window, bringing with it a melody of passing cars and rustling trees. His shoulders ached from hunching himself over his work, stiff bones cricking and cracking as he rolled his chair back and rose to his feet.

He was getting too Goddamn old for this.

Tossing his pen onto the desk, and scooping up his white coat hanging loosely off the back of his chair, Bobby left the silence of his office, emerging into the bustling hospital corridors right outside his door. A few nurses and interns greeted him as they rushed passed, rolling gurneys and wheelchairs, juggling clipboards and coffee cups. The air scented of sterile lemon cleaner, hand sanitizer, and metal. The fluorescent light just outside his office was still flickering insistently, and Bobby wondered if the maintenance man was ever going to get around to changing that damn light bulb.

He moved silently through the halls, like he always did, most people paying him no mind, save for the occasional nod of greeting and a hello. Bobby was a stern force, a man who took his damn job seriously. He had to. Cancer had taken his beloved Karen almost fifteen years ago, and there was no way he was going to allow that vicious, cruel disease to make anyone else feel the way he did every time he woke up each morning.

Bobby knew he couldn't just snap his fingers and procure a cure for the disease, but he tried with everything he had to catch the thing in its earliest stages, to get his patients into chemo and radiation as promptly as possible, to make them comfortable and safe in the long journey back to health and happiness.

It was all he lived for these days. And he was as content as he could be.

He made for the doors leading out of the department, hoping to perhaps catch Sam with the rest of the interns in the clinic. It'd been a long while since he'd seen that kid, and boy had he sprouted up like a Goddamn tree. It was a wonder he wasn't knocking his forehead off all the exit signs.

He'd grown into a fine boy, a fine doctor. So attentive, eager to learn, and respectful. John would've been proud of him.

Bobby reached out to shove open the swinging doors out of the Oncology Department, when he caught sight of Jo Harvelle out of the tail of his eye, waving her hand to catch his attention. She was Ellen's only child, bright and stubborn like her mother, long blonde hair pulled up in a loose bun, eyes sharp and far too intelligent for a girl of her age. But she was warm, and full of spirit. She made a wonderful nurse.

"Dr. Singer, a moment please?" She asked.

Bobby nodded, lumbering over to the nurse's station. "What is it, Jo?"

She tucked a pen into her breast pocket, and set down her clipboard. "You have a patient waiting for you in Consultation Room B."

Bobby's heavy brows furrowed. "I don't recall an appointment being made."

"I don't think there was, sir," She shrugged. "All I received was a page, telling me to find you and send you there."

"A page from who?"

"Dr. MacLeod." Jo responded, sipping from her tea.

Bobby grunted low in his throat. "What's he doin' paging my nurses instead of me? And why would he bring in a patient himself?"

Jo shook her head, the tendrils of hair around her lovely face swaying to and fro. "No idea. He didn't elaborate."

"Course not. That'd be too courteous of him." Bobby patted the top of the nurse's desk and turned away. "Thanks, Jo."

Pulling his stethoscope out of his coat pocket and draping it around the back of his neck, just in case the patient required any kind of standard examination, Bobby headed for Consultation Room B. After this little unexpected appointment was over and done with, he was going to make sure to give Crowley a call. Son of a bitch was always screwing with him, stealing his coffee orders while in line at the cafeteria, showing up randomly in his office to pester him while he's trying to finish up work. If the bastard wasn't his boss, Bobby would've locked him in a storage closet overnight by now.

The door to Consultation Room B was shut, and Bobby pushed his way in, only to come upon a room plunged in complete darkness, save for the stream of fluorescent hallway light bleeding in from behind Bobby. He paused with his palm still on the handle, a frown creasing his aging features.

Did he get the right room?

"Uh, hello?" He reached over and flicked on the light.

Turns out the room wasn't as empty as he'd thought. What was revealed to him under the buzzing light was no sick patient, though. Dr. Crowley McLeod was lounging on the metal examination table, one leg crossed over the other, a smug smirk spread across his face.

"Hello, darling." He purred in that gravelled voice of his.

Bobby's frown deepened. "Have you been sitting here in the dark this entire time?"

"Perhaps."

"Where's the patient?"

Crowley quirked a brow. "What patient?"

"The patient you told my nurse about." Bobby felt himself bristle, nudging the door shut behind him.

"I never mentioned a patient, love." Crowley grinned. "All I said was that you were needed in the room, by me. I guess she just assumed it was because some sick person needed your help."

"That's generally what these rooms are for."

Crowley slid down off the table. Well, perhaps slid wasn't the right word. Bobby would've used slithered. There was a damn eerie fluidity to the way he moved, a grace that was unusual for an older gentleman like him. He glided over to Bobby, hands tucked into the pockets of his perfectly tailored and remarkable unwrinkled suit jacket. The guy always looked so damn proper, so damn perfect.

Didn't stop him from being a pain in the ass, though.

"There something you want?" Bobby asked. "Or can I leave and actually go see people that really need me?"

Crowley's eyes flickered. "Oh, there's always something I want from you, darling."

"You done?"

The Dean of Medicine stopped just in front of him, and clasped both hands together. "No, actually. You see, there was a reason I called you in here."

"Besides wasting my time?" Bobby shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and scratched at his wiry beard. "You know, if you needed to talk to me, there's something called a telephone."

"You know how much I love seeing you face to face."

This always happened when they were in a room together. Between he constant pestering and shameless flirting, Bobby felt like the girl who always got her pigtails tugged on the playground.

Crowley took a step closer, until all Bobby could scent was that expensive cologne. "You work too much, love." He purred. "What say you and I leave this depressing place for a few hours tonight, hm? Perhaps go get something to eat?"

"Like a date?" Bobby asked flatly.

"Well, if you'd like it to be." Crowley licked his lips.

"You've asked me this question over a dozen times, Crowley," Bobby took a step away, and reached behind him for the door handle. "The answer is still no."

"You sure?" Crowley's voice lowered to a husky growl, but Bobby still felt it rumble in his ears. "I can make it worth your while, you know. Loosen you up a bit, so you're not such a grouchy, stubborn old git all the damn time."

"Tempting offer," Bobby grunted. "But no."

Crowley's lips quirked in a slight smile. "Can't blame a girl for trying."

"You should quit trying." Bobby threw open the door and stepped out. "And stop bugging my nurses. They have other things to focus on."

Crowley followed him out, shoulder leaning against the doorframe. "You know I'm not going to quit asking until you give in."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm a stubborn old git then, ain't it?"

Crowley's slight smile reappeared, and it even touched those wicked hazel eyes of his. When Bobby turned away and headed off to return to his regularly scheduled duties, he couldn't help but keep the memory of that smile with him.

Not that there was really any reason for it.

None at all.


	5. Chapter 5

The sherbet glow of setting sunlight bled in, crawling across the plains and mountains of bedspread and up to kiss his cheek with its warmth. Castiel Novak felt himself slowly rouse from a drug-induced sleep, his movements sluggish, and his body feeling as though it carried the weight of the world upon it. The light danced across his dark lashes, and he turned his head away from the brightness with an attempted groan, only to be rewarded with a vicious throbbing ache at his throat that trapped his breath in his lungs. Eyes still closed, he lifted his hand, rough palm sliding up across the thin blankets pulled up to his chest, before finally landing upon a great medley of chaos at his neck.

Bandages. Lots of them. Wrapped round and round and round, as if they were the only things keeping his head from lopping right off his shoulders. There were tubes as well. Two of them, embedded deep inside him, their long bodies leading off the bed somewhere, probably hooked up to whatever was keeping him alive at the moment. He could hear beeping at his side, some slow, some quick, which meant he was connected to even more ghastly machines. Castiel had a feeling he currently resembled some great science experiment gone horribly awry.

The pain wasn't so bad if he didn't try and make a sound. Just a dull ache each time he breathed in, barely noticeable with the way his mind was fogged up. Faintly, he could make out the sound of many voices. Unfamiliar and distant; some shouting, some speaking calmly, others laughing, intertwined with a chorus of squeaking sneakers on linoleum flooring and rickety wheels rolling by.

Nose wrinkling, Castiel slowly opened his eyes, and was greeted with the sleep-hazed sight of a small hospital room. Much like everything else in a hospital, it was clean and white, scenting sterile and fresh. Not too hot, nor too cool. He had a small window to his left, overlooking the city skyline, and a television mounted on the wall at the end of his bed. He was bundled up to his chest in soft linens and, upon further inspection, realized that he was completely naked beneath them, save for a pale blue hospital gown. Castiel pressed his chapped lips into a thin line, vaguely wondering of the state of the tan trench coat he'd been wearing this morning when…

That's when it hit him.

With enough force to make him gasp softly, memories invaded his mind's eye like a projector had been suddenly flicked on inside his skull. It'd happened fast, too fast. He'd only been out for a good fifteen minutes when it happened, and in the middle of the day, no less. Perhaps it was in his good fortune in such a case. Castiel had a feeling that if this had occurred late at night, he would have bled out on the sidewalk before anyone found him.

He'd never been mugged before. But, there was a first for everything he supposed. He never got a glimpse of the scoundrel's face when the edge of a blade had been put to his throat from behind. Judging from the voice that growled in his ear, demanding his wallet, the male could not have been much older than him. He had reeked of alcohol and sweat, and he was jittery, the blade nicking Castiel's neck as the hand that held it trembled. Either the man had been nervous, or severely hopped up on whatever he'd injected himself with to give him the courage to commit such a crime in broad daylight.

Castiel had been as calm as possible, reaching into the pocket of his trench to fetch his wallet. He didn't have much. He had just gone to the store to fetch a few things, so most of his cash had been spent. When the wallet had been snatched away, a voice had called out from a distance, perhaps a Good Samaritan attempting to stop the crime-in-progress, but it had been a foolish move. In his haste to escape, the man had sliced the blade clean across Castiel's throat. An accident, no doubt, but that didn't make Castiel feel any better. He clearly recalled the sickening warmth of his own blood pouring down the front of him, the manner in which the world had spun and tilted over when Castiel hit the ground in a great heap. There was no pain, really. After that, everything else had been fuzzy.

Except one thing. Castiel must have drifted in and out of consciousness in the time it took to get from the sidewalk to the hospital, because the next thing he recalled was a young male doctor talking to him, asking him questions. His voice had seemed so distant, as though calling to him from a long tunnel, though he'd only been inches away. Castiel could barely recall what he looked like, except his eyes. Bright, achingly-beautiful eyes, olive green and framed in incredibly long lashes. There had been a kindness in them, a strength, a determination. And, in that, even though blood was rushing out of his body with every passing second, Castiel had felt safe.

Remarkable, he thought, to be lying here, alive and only in slight pain after everything he had been through. Perhaps he had that doctor to thank for that.

The creak of a door opening alerted him, and Castiel turned his head just enough to catch sight of a young woman in teal scrubs entering the room. She moved quietly, carrying a fresh IV bag and a clipboard, her bob of dark hair bouncing along as she walked across the room to his side. A bright smile lit up her face when they locked eyes.

"You're awake," She walked around the bed. "Feeling better I hope?"

Castiel could only nod, since answering verbally was out of the question.

"Good. That's the pain meds doing their job."

He watched with curious eyes as she went about her business, checking his vitals and scribbling down notes onto the clipboard. She switched him to a fresh IV bag, and drew the curtains a little more, blocking away the harsh light from the setting sun and plunging the room into a cozy warm glow.

"My name is Tessa, by the way." She stated with a smile. "I'll be your nurse for the time you're here, and if you need anything at all, just press this." She gestured to a small pad and button near his bed. "I'll drop everything and come running. Okay?"

Castiel enjoyed the warmth in her bright brown eyes, the gentleness to her voice. He nodded in understanding.

"Now, you didn't have any identification with you when you were admitted, so we were unable to contact any family you may have." She chuckled, albeit softly, and handed him her clipboard and pen. "We don't even know your name, to be honest. So, any information you can give us, just scribble it down for me."

Castiel took up the pen and made quick work of writing down his full name and birthday, and as he was about to give her his contact information, the thought of his sister made his heart clench. God, how worried she must be right now. He was only supposed to be out for fifteen minutes. It had been hours. She was probably yanking her hair out with panic.

He hadn't even brought his cell phone with him.

He was going to get a mighty scolding when she finds out.

When he wrote down her name and number, Tessa gathered up the clipboard again, and read over his messy handwriting. "We'll get to contacting your sister right away, Mr. Novak. In the meantime, Dr. Winchester is going to come in and explain everything that happened during your surgery, just so you aren't left in the dark about anything."

Castiel's mouth went a little dry.

_Winchester. _

Dr. Winchester… Yes, he remembered that name from earlier. The doctor with the stunning eyes had called himself that.

He watched Tessa leave, and settled himself back against the plush pillow. Glancing over, he noticed a few dials on the side of his bed, with arrows pointing either upward or downward. Castiel brushed callous-tipped fingers over them, feeling the coolness of the smooth plastic, before pressing down on the upward arrow. The top third of the bed began to rise with a steady groan, and Castiel sighed in relief as he was able to properly sit up. Just as he released the button, there was a soft rap on the door, before it swung open with a gentle squeak.

Clad in a billowing white coat with a smile as dazzling as the stars, Dr. Winchester strode inside the room, and Castiel was struck speechless.

Well, had he been able to speak, that is.

He was carrying something under the crook of his arm. Something flat, and white; a folder perhaps? Castiel watched him as he came closer, watched the confidence in the way he carried himself, all broad shoulders and swayed walk. He watched the way the stethoscope draped across the back of his neck swayed to and fro, and how the natural light from the setting sun casted harsh shadows across ridiculously beautiful features.

"Alright, how are we feelin' tonight?" Dr. Winchester asked as he reached his bedside. His voice was deep, rough like a growl, but oddly soothing. "Think you can rate the pain level for me? One to ten."

Castiel lifted up four fingers in response.

"Not bad at all." Dr. Winchester extended a hand in greeting. "I'm Dr. Dean Winchester, the Head of the Trauma Department here at Wayward Saints. I performed surgery on you this afternoon. Do you remember me?"

Castiel nodded, joining their hands in a firm clasp. Dr. Winchester's palms were slightly larger than his, broad and warm to the touch. Incredibly soft, but Castiel imagined it had to do with all the hand washing surgeons did.

"Now, before I get started on giving you a run-through on the events of this afternoon, I have a little gift for you." Dr. Winchester reached under his arm, and pulled out the flat white folder, which Castiel now realized was actually a handheld whiteboard. He fished for the marker in his coat pocket, and handed them both over. "You won't be able to speak for a good week or two if we're lucky, so if you have any questions, any concerns, you just write them down. Okay?"

Castiel nodded once, and watched as Dr. Winchester dragged over one of the chairs near the wall, the legs scraping loudly against the linoleum. He planted himself comfortably into it, and leaned forward with his elbows rested on his knees.

"My nurse said we finally know your name now, too." He grinned. "Castle Novak, is it?"

Castiel wrinkled his nose with a frown and shook his head.

"No?"

There was a sharp pop as Castiel uncapped the marker and scribbled his name down on the whiteboard, the tip squeaking loudly against the smooth surface. He made sure to write it in all capitals, and underlined the "I", just to be clear. He turned the board over.

Dr. Winchester narrowed those eyes of his as he read. "Castiel?"

Castiel nodded hard.

"You have terrible handwriting, Castiel." Dr. Winchester smiled. "May want to work on that, unless you're planning to get into my field. Doctor's are usually the only ones that can get away with having illegible chicken scratch."

A laugh attempted to escape Castiel's throat, but what he received was a sharp jab of pain. He lifted his hand and rubbed at the bandages, wincing with a grimace.

"Pain?" Suddenly, those soft hands were over his, gently pushing it aside and tilting his head back ever so slightly. "Let me see."

Castiel stiffened, the sudden realization of how close Dr. Winchester was robbing him of breath. He felt soft thumbs brush across the layers of gauze, a gentle tug and adjustment of the tubing running out of his throat. He could hear Dr. Winchester's steady, even breaths, could lift his gaze and count each fleck of gold in those green eyes, examine the galaxies of freckles on that soft looking skin. He decided not to swallow down his nerves, for fear of another painful jolt, and wet his chapped lips instead.

Dr. Winchester's hands stilled, and all at once, their eyes met. The gaze was soft, questioning, but lasted only a moment before the other man quickly drew himself away. Castiel turned his attention to the window and scratched at the back of his neck, cursing his pale complexion when he felt the kiss of heat bloom on his cheeks.

"I'll, uh…" He heard Dr. Winchester stammer. "I'll get Tessa to up your dose a bit, just so you're more comfortable. All right?"

Castiel only nodded, and just when Dr. Winchester opened his mouth to say something else, the door to the hospital room flew open.

"CASTIEL!"

The familiar half-shriek of his older sister filled the silence, and she hurled herself inside, rushing to his bedside and taking one of his hands in both of hers. She looked an absolute wreck. Her blonde hair was half up in a messy bun, tears danced in her wide eyes, and her clothes were mismatched and practically thrown on without so much as a thought. She must have picked up whatever she could reach and rushed to the hospital as fast as humanly possible. She was trembling, absolutely trembling, and Castiel felt terrible for having caused her such worry.

"Oh God, look at you." She lifted one delicate hand and just barely brushed her fingertips over the gauze on his neck. "I knew I should have been the one to go out to the store this morning. They were just chocolate chips for Gods sake. I should have gone."

Castiel shook his head. No, how could he ever allow her to blame herself? His sweet, strong, protective big sister.

"Are you okay?" She asked, brushing his unkempt dark hair back.

He offered her a reassuring smile, and nodded.

"…Rachel?"

They both looked up at the sound of Dr. Winchester's voice, and the other man was staring at Castiel's sister like she had just sprouted a second head.

Rachel stared back. "…Dean?"

Castiel could only blink, his gaze flicking back and forth between them.

"What are you doing here?" Rachel asked softly, straightening her posture like the proud woman she was, though one of her hands remained clasped with Castiel's.

Dr. Winchester quirked a brow. "I work here."

"You know what I meant." She bit out.

"I'm your brother's doctor." Dr. Winchester frowned. "I performed surgery on him this afternoon when he as brought in. I was actually just about to give him a walkthrough of all that happened, if you'd care to stay and listen. It'd be good if you knew everything he'll need in order to recover properly."

Castiel's jaw worked but, of course, no sound escaped. He wanted to cut in, ask how on earth Rachel and Dr. Winchester could possibly know each other. But, as he felt the weight of Rachel's body dip the mattress when she sat next to him, her cheeks stained in tears and her grip tight on his hand, he thought best to save such miniscule questions for later.

"After I'm done speaking with you, a couple police officers are going to want to come in and have a word with Mr. Novak about what occurred this afternoon." Dean stated, those green eyes finding Castiel's. "They shouldn't be long. I've informed them already how you need your rest. They'll only ask a few questions, maybe get you to sign a statement, and then leave. That alright with you?"

Castiel nodded, though he could already feel whatever energy he'd woken up with already begin to seep from his body. He leaned himself further against the comfort of the pillow behind his head.

"Now, if you have any questions for me as I walk you through the surgery, just scribble them down and I'll answer them as best as I can." Dr. Winchester's full, too-soft looking lips pulled back into a smile, and he winked. "And try and keep it legible."

Castiel found himself smiling back, the warmth returning to his cheeks.

There was something incredibly rare about this man, and for the life of him, Castiel couldn't figure out what it was.

* * *

><p>"Black coffee, three sugars. Am I right?"<p>

Weary hazel eyes lifted from the stack of papers scattered across the main desk in the Mary Winchester Medical Clinic, and fell upon the fresh cup of steaming coffee Gabriel suddenly placed there. Dark brows quirked, and then Gabriel could've sworn he saw every ounce of exhaustion vanish from that handsome young face, especially when those eyes rose to meet his own.

"Well?" He asked again, resting his hip on the side of the desk. He had his motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm.

Sam Winchester stared dumbstruck at him for a moment, and then spluttered over his words. "U-um…" He lifted a hand, and ended up knocking a medical file onto the floor. "Crap." He murmured, reaching down to scoop it back up. Gabriel grinned all the while. "Sorry. I mean, uh… y-yeah… Yeah. Thank you."

"You're welcome." The Head of Cardiology swept his caramel hair back away from his face and glanced over at the clock. It ticked close to three in the morning. "Thought you might need it for the night ahead." He tapped at the stack of papers in front of Sam. "Getting your reports done?"

"Yes, sir." Sam said as he sipped gingerly from his coffee, mindful of its heat.

"And afterward?"

The young intern placed the cup carefully back on the desk, away from where his long gangly limbs could send it flying, and gathered up the stack of reports. "After I file these, I have a break for a couple hours while Andy covers my shift here. I'll find a room to sleep in, and then we switch at five."

"What've you done so far?" Gabriel asked, plucking a caramel from the pocket of his leather biking jacket and unwrapping it. He popped it into his mouth and chewed slowly, savouring the way the sticky sweet candy moulded and clung to his molars.

Sam sat up straighter. "I've treated two rashes, mended three fractures on a couple teenage boys who had a skateboarding accident, applied countless stitches to an array of patients…"

"Enjoying yourself?" Gabriel cut in.

The weariness returned to the boy's features. "It's… exhausting."

"Ah well…" Gabriel tapped on the lid of the coffee cup. "Thus why I brought you this. Trust me when I say that coffee is an intern's best friend, especially on the 48 Hour Rush. You're gonna be dragging yourself around these halls for many nights, kiddo. Try and squeeze in as much sleep as you can." He smiled. "I used to take naps in the supply closet when I started out here."

"Seriously?" Sam gaped.

"Yup." Gabriel grinned proudly. "You do what you can here to succeed. Though, I wouldn't recommend sleeping in closets for you. Considering your size, I doubt you'd hide very well."

Sam's eyes flickered away, almost bashfully, and God damn him, Gabriel couldn't help but find it sickeningly adorable.

"You heading home?" Sam asked softly, gesturing to Gabriel's helmet.

The Cardiologists jaw cocked softly, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He hadn't been home in a while. Though, _home_ isn't really what he'd call his penthouse loft in the city. "Yeah. Clocking out late tonight. I have the day off tomorrow."

Now, it may have just been his overworked mind, but Gabriel could've sworn Sam's face just fell. "So… I won't see you tomorrow?"

Gabriel smirked devilishly, his brows lifting. "Do you _want_ to see me tomorrow?"

"N-no! No! I-I mean… well, yes, I do, b-but… not like… No, that's not what I meant." Sam covered his face with those enormous hands of his. "Crap."

"Jeez, I fluster the fuck out of you, don't I?" Gabriel reached across the desk, and gently uncovered the young intern's face. "You can relax around me, you know. I won't bite."

Sam visibly swallowed. "I don't want to piss you off anymore than I already have."

"Piss me off?" Gabriel frowned with a shake of his head. "You haven't pissed me off."

"I called you an asshat…" Sam said shamefully, sipping at his coffee once more.

"That?" Gabriel snorted, flicking his hand dismissively. He took a step back from the desk, and switched his helmet to his other arm. "_Puhlease_, kiddo. I've been called worse."

"So, you aren't upset?"

"I've no reason to be." Gabriel smiled, and this time is was genuine. "You're a good kid. You got ticked off and lashed out. It's what we all do. All that matters to me is that you have a whackload of potential, and I know you're going to do well here. Just keep your head on straight, and your passion in your work. Don't let anyone bring you down."

"Yes, Dr. Wesson." Sam's eyes swam with determination. Determination to excel, to defy odds and be the best he could possibly be.

Reminded Gabriel a lot of himself, come to think of it.

"I'll leave you to your work." Gabriel nodded once. "Get some rest, and have a good night, Winchester."

"You too, sir."

Gabriel left the quietude of the clinic and took the shortcut out of the ambulance bay doors, the cool kiss of night air hitting his cheeks as he stepped outside. All around him, the city lights shone from within towering skyscrapers and buildings, their forms silhouetted against the blue velvet night sky.

He made his way over to his motorcycle sitting lone in its space without the company of Dean's precious Impala next to it, his boots scuffing against the asphalt. His keys jingled as he took them out, and his heart sat heavy in his chest. Heavy with the thought of having to return back to his loft, to the walls devoid of family photos, the rooms lacking the echo of laughter and chatter; a place that didn't even creak with footsteps in the long hours of the night.

Sometimes he couldn't handle going back there, to the silence, the emptiness, after the chaos and company of the hospital halls. It was maddening, almost deafening, how Goddamn quiet it was. When he could, he'd camp out in his office, or snag a place in the on-call rooms or a motel down the road. But with the interns doing their 48 Hour Rush, those beds belonged to them.

He never regretted the decision that he made, leaving his family. If he hadn't, God knows where he would have ended up. Given their track record: dead, or worse. He had no shame in choosing his career over them; they had chosen themselves, their own problems, their own selfishness, over his well-being. It was only fair.

If loneliness was his only punishment for stepping up, and taking control of his life…

So be it.


End file.
